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NARRATIVE  OF  PRISON  LIFE 


AT  BALTIMORE  AND  JOHNSON'S 
ISLAND,  OHIO 


BY 


HENRY  E.  SHEPHERD,  M.  A.,  LL  D. 

Formerly  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction,  Baltimore. 

Author  of  "  The  Life  of  Robert  E.  Lee,"  "  History  of 

the  English  Language,"  "Commentary  upon 

Tennyson's  '  In  Memoriam,' "  etc. 


1917 

Commercial  Ptg.  &  Sta.  Co. 
Baltimore 


$5 

r    .    X 


THE  LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


NARRATIVE  OF  PRISON  LIFE 


J  WAS  captured  at  Gettysburg  on  the 
fifth  day  of  July,  1863.  A  bullet  had 
passed  through  my  right  knee  during 
the  fierce  engagement  on  Culp's  Hill, 
July  3rd,  and  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Fed- 
eral Army. 

By  the  6th  of  July  Lee  had  withdrawn  from 
Pennsylvania,  and,  despite  the  serious  nature 
of  my  wound,  I  was  removed  to  the  general 
hospital,  Frederick  City,  Md.  Here  for,  at 
least  a  month,  I  was  under  the  charge  of  the 
regular  army  surgeons,  at  whose  hands  I  re- 
ceived excellent  and  skillful  treatment.  For 
this  I  have  ever  been  grateful.  I  recall,  also, 
many  kindnesses  shown  me  by  a  number  of 
Catholic  Sisters  of  Frederick,  whose  special 
duty  was  the  care  of  the  sick  and  the  wounded. 
On  the  14th  of  August  I  was  taken  to  Bal- 
timore. Upon  arriving,  I  was  forced  to  march 
with  a  number  of  fellow  prisoners  from  Camden 
Station  to  the  office  of  the  Provost  Marshal, 
then  situated  at  the  Gilmor  House,  directly 
facing  the  Battle  Monument.  The  weather 
was  intensely  hot,  and  my  limb  was  bleeding 

557503 
c.x 


from  the  still  unhealed  wound.  After  an  ex- 
hausting delay,  I  was  finally  removed  in  an 
ambulance  to  the  "West  Hospital"  at  the  end 
of  Concord  street,  looking  out  upon  Union 
Dock  and  the  wharves  at  that  time  occupied  by 
the  Old  Bay  Line  or  Baltimore  Steam  Packet 
Company. 

The  West  Building  was  originally  a  ware- 
house intended  for  the  storage  of  cotton,  now 
transformed  into  a  hospital  by  the  Federal  gov- 
ernment. It  had  not  a  single  element  of  adap- 
tation for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  applied. 

The  immense  structure  was  dark,  gloomy, 
without  adequate  ventilation,  devoid  of  sani- 
tary of  hygienic  appliances  or  conveniences,  and 
pervaded  at  all  times  by  the  pestilential  exhala- 
tions which  arose  from  the  neighboring  docks. 
During  the  seven  weeks  of  my  sojourn  here,  I 
rarely  tasted  a  glass  of  cold  water,  tout  drank, 
in  the  broiling  heat  of  the  dog  days,  the  warm, 
impure  draught  that  flowed  from  the  hydrant 
adjoining  the  ward  in  which  I  lay.  My  food 
was  mush  and  molasses  with  hard  bread,  served 
three  times  a  day. 

When  I  reached  the  West  Building,  I  was 
almost  destitute  of  clothing,  for  such  as  I  had 
worn  was  nearly  reduced  to  fragments,  the  sur- 
geons having  multilated  it  seriously  while 
treating  my  wound  received  at  Gettysburg. 
6 


My  friends  made  every  effort  to  furnish  me 
with  a  fresh  supply  but  without  avail.  The 
articles  of  wearing  apparel  designed  for  me 
were  appropriated  by  the  authorities  in  charge, 
and  the  letter  which  accompanied  them  was 
taken  unread  from  my  hands.  Moreover,  my 
friends  and  relatives,  of  whom  I  had  not  a  few  in 
Baltimore,  were  rigorously  denied  all  access  to 
me ;  if  they  endeavored  to  communicate  with 
me,  their  letters  were  intercepted ;  and  if  they 
strove  to  minister  to  my  relief  in  any  form,  their 
supplies  were  turned  back  at  the  gate  o'f  the 
hospital,  or  confiscated  to  the  use  of  the  ward- 
ens and  nurses. 

On  one  occasion  a  party  of  Baltimore  ladies 
who  were  anxious  to  contribute  to  the  well 
being  of  the  Confederate  prisoners  in  the  West 
Building,  were  driven  from  the  sidewalk  by  a 
volley  of  decayed  eggs  hurled  at  them  by  the 
hospital  guards.  I  was  present  when  this  in- 
cident occurred,  and  hearing  the  uproar,  limped 
from  my  bunk  to  the  window,  just  in  time  to 
see  the  group  of  ladies  assailed  by  the  eggs 
retreating  up  Concord  street  in  order  to  escape 
these  missiles.  They  were  soon  out  of  range, 
and  their  visit  to  the  hospital  was  never  re- 
peated, at  least  during  my  sojourn  within  its 
walls. 

I  remained  in  West  Hospital  until  Septem- 
7 


ber  29th,  1863,  at  which  date  I  was  transferred 
to  Johnson's  Island,  Ohio,  our  route  being  by 
the  Northern  Central  Railway  from  Calvert 
Station  through  Pittsburg  to  Sandusky,  Ohio. 
Our  party  consisted  of  about  thirty-'five  Con- 
federate officers,  one  of  the  number  being  Gen- 
eral Isaac  R.  Trimble,  the  foremost  soldier  of 
Maryland  in  the  Confederate  service,  who  was 
in  a  state  of  almost  absolute  helplessness,  a 
limb  having  been  amputated  above  the  knee 
in  consequence  of  a  wound  received  at  Gettys- 
burg on  the  2nd  of  July. 

A  word  in  reference  to  the  methods  of 
treatment,  medical  and  surgical,  which  pre- 
vailed in  West  Hospital,  may  serve  to  illustrate 
the  immense  advance  in  those  spheres  of  sci- 
ence, since  the  period  I  have  in  contemplation — 
1863-64.  Lister  had  only  recentlv  promulgated 
his  beneficent  and  far  reaching  discovery, 
aseptics;  and  even  the  use  of  anaesthetics,  which 
had  been  known  to  the  world  for  nearly  fifteen 
years,  was  awkward,  crude  and  imperfect.  The 
surgeons  of  that  time  seemed  to  be  timorous  in 
the  application  of  their  own  agency,  and  the  carni- 
val of  horrors  which  was  revealed  on  more  than 
one  occasion  in  the  operating  room,  might  have 
engaged  the  loftiest  power  of  tragic  portrayal 
displayed  by  the  author  of  ''The  Inferno."  The 
gangrene  was  cut  from  my  wound,  as  a  butcher 

8 


would  cut  a  chop  or  a  steak  in  the  Lexington  mar- 
ket; it  may  have  been  providential  that  I  was 
delivered  from1  the  anaesthetic  blundering  then 
in  vogue,  and  ''recovered  in  spite  of  my  physi- 
cian." Consideration  originating  in  sensibility,  or 
even  in  humanity,  found  no  place  in  West  Hospi- 
tal. To  illustrate  concretely,  a  soldier,  severely 
wounded,  was  brought  into  the  overcrowded  ward 
in  which  I  lay.  There  was  no  bunk  or  resting 
place  at  his  disposal,  but  one  of  the  stewards 
recognizing  the  exigency,  soon  found  a  ghastly 
remedy.  "Why,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  dying 
man  in  his  cot,  "that  old  fellow  over  there  will 
soon  be  dead,  and  as  soon  as  he  is  gone,  we'll  put 
this  man  in  his  bed."  And  so  the  living  soldier 
was  at  once  consigned  to  the  uncleansed  berth 
of  his  predecessor.  Five  years  after  the  war  had 
passed  into  history,  I  met  the  physician  who  had 
attended  me,  on  a  street  car  in  South  Baltimore. 
He  did  not  recognize  me,  as  I  had  been  trans- 
formed from  boyhood  to  manhood,  since  I  en- 
dured my  seven  weeks'  torture  from  thirst  and 
hunger  in  the  cavernous  recesses  of  West  Hos- 
pital. Among  the  notable  characters  who  visited 
the  sick  and  wounded,  was  Thomas  Swann,  asso- 
ciated in  more  than  one  relation  with  the  political 
fortunes  of  Maryland.  The  object  of  his  mission 
was  to  prevail  upon  his  nephew,  then  in  the  Con- 
federate service,  to  forswear  himself  and  become 
9 


a  recreant  to  the  cause  of  the  South.  His  purpose 
was  accomplished  without  apparent  difficulty,  or 
delay  in  assuring  the  contemplated  result.  Rev. 
Dr.  Backus,  pastor  of  the  First  Presbyterian 
Church,  was  another  visitor  whom  I  recall.  Not 
one  of  those  who  would  gladly  have  ministered 
to  my  needs,  was  ever  allowed  to  cross  the  thres- 
hold, or  in  any  form  to  communicate  with  me. 

The  first  of  October,  1863,  found  me  estab- 
lished in  Block  No.  11,  at  Johnson's  Island,  Ohio. 
This,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  Federal 
prisons,  is  situated  about  three  miles  from  San- 
dusky, near  the  mouth  of  its  harbor,  not  remote 
from  the  point  at  which  Commodore  Perry  won 
his  famous  victory  during  the  second  war  with 
England,  September  10th,  1813.  On  every  side, 
Lake  Erie  and  the  harbor  encompassed  it  effect- 
ually. Nature  had  made  it  an  ideal  prison.  There 
was  but  a  single  hope  of  escape,  and  that  was  by 
means  of  the  dense  ice  which  enveloped  the  island 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  winter  season.  I 
once  saw  1,500  Federal  soldiers  march  in  perfect 
security  from  Sandusky  to  Johnson's  Island,  a 
distance  of  three  miles,  across  the  firmly  frozen 
harbor.  This  was  in  January,  1864.  The  area 
of  the  island  was  estimated  at  eight  acres;  it  is 
now  devoted  to  the  peaceful  purpose  of  grape 
culture. 

During  the  summer  months,  when  the  lake 

10 


was  free  from  ice,  a  sloop  of  war  lay  constantly 
off  the  Island,  with  her  guns  trained  upon  the 
barracks.  Yet,  notwithstanding  the  seemingly 
hopeless  nature  of  the  surroundings,  there  were 
a  few  successful  attempts  to  escape.  I  knew  per- 
sonally at  least  two  of  those  who  scaled  the  high 
wall  and  made  their  way  across  the  frozen  har- 
bor under  cover  of  the  friendly  darkness.  One 
of  these,  Colonel  Winston,  of  Daniel's  N.  C. 
Brigade,  during  the  fearful  cold  January,  1864, 
covered  his  hands  with  pepper,  and  wearing  a 
pair  of  thick  gloves,  sprang  over  the  wall,  escaped 
to  Canada,  and  reached  the  Confederacy  via 
Nassau  and  Wilmington,  N.  C,  running  the  block- 
ade at  the  latter  point.  Another  was  Mr.  S. 
Cremmin,  of  Louisiana,  for  many  years  principal 
of  a  male  grammar  school  in  Baltimore,  who 
died  as  recently  as  1908.  Mr.  Cremmin  reached 
the  South  through  Kentucky,  cleverly  represent- 
ing himself  as  an  ardent  Union  sympathizer. 
Those  who  failed,  as  by  far  the  greater  number 
did  (for  I  can  recall  not  more  than  three  or  four 
successful  attempts  in  all),  were  subjected  to 
the  most  degrading  punishments  in  the  form  of 
servile  labor,  scarcely  adapted  to  the  status  of 
convicts. 

This    island    prison    was    intended    for    the 
confinement  of  Confederate  officers  only,  of  whom 
there  were  nearly  three  thousand  immured  with- 
11 


in  its  walls  during  the  period  of  my  residence. 
The  greater  part  of  these  had  been  captured  at 
Gettysburg  and  Port  Hudson,  just  at  the  date 
of  the  suspension  of  the  cartel  of  exchanges  of 
prisoners  on  the  part  of  the  Federal  government, 
July,  1863. 

As  it  is  the  aim  of  this  narrative  to  present 
a  simple  statement  of  personal  experiences,  not 
impressions  or  inferences  deduced  from  the  nar- 
rative of  others,  every  incident  or  episode  de- 
scribed is  founded  upon  the  individual  or  im- 
mediate knowledge  of  the  writer.  I  relate  what  I 
saw  and  heard,  not  what  I  received  upon  testi- 
mony, however  accurate  or  trustworthy.  My  rec- 
ord of  the  period  that  I  passed  at  Johnson's  Island 
will  be  devoted  to  the  consideration  of  several  es- 
sential points,  each  of  them  being  illustrated  by 
one  or  more  specific  examples.  To  state  them  in 
the  simplest  form,  they  are :  The  rations  served  to 
the  Confederate  prisoners ;  measures  used  to  pro- 
tect them  from  the  extreme  rigor  of  the  climate 
as  to  fuel  and  clothing ;  their  communication  with 
their  friends  in  the  South,  by  means  of  the  mails 
conveyed  through  the  medium  of  the  flag  of  truce 
boats,  via  Richmond  and  Aiken's  Landing;  and 
the  treatment  accorded  them  in  sickness  by  the 
physicians  in  charge  of  the  hospital.  These,  I 
believe,  include  the  vital  features  involved  in  a 
narrative  of  my  experiences  as  a  prisoner  in  Fed- 


eral  hands. 

During  the  earlier  months  of  my  life  on  the 
Island,  a  sutler's  shop  afforded  extra  supplies  for 
those  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  have  control 
of  small  amounts  of  United  States  currency, 
This  happier  element,  however,  included  but  a 
limited  proportion  of  the  three  thousand,  so  that, 
for  the  greater  part,  relentless  and  gnawing  hun- 
ger was  the  chronic  and  normal  state.  But  even 
this  merciful  tempering  of  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lambs  of  implacable  appetite,  was  destined  soon 
to  become  a  mere  memory;  for  suddenly  and 
without  warning,  the  sutler  and  his  mitigating 
supplies  passed  away  upon  the  ground  of  retalia- 
tion for  alleged  cruelties  inflicted  upon  Federal 
prisoners  in  the  hands  of  the  Confederate  gov- 
ernment. Then  began  the  grim  and  remorseless 
struggle  with  starvation  until  I  was  released  on 
parole  and  sent  South  by  way  of  Old  Point  dur- 
ing the  final  stages  of  the  siege  of  the  Confederate 
capital. 

With  the  disappearance  of  the  sutler's  stores 
and  the  exclusion  of  every  form  of  food  provided 
by  friends  in  the  North  or  at  the  South,  there 
came  the  period  of  supreme  suffering  by  all  alike. 
Boxes  sent  prisoners  were  seized,  and  their  con- 
tents appropriated.  Thus  began,  and  for  six 
months  continued,  a  fierce  and  unresting  conflict 
to  maintain  life  upon  the  minimum  of  rations  fur- 

13 


nished  from  day  to  day  by  the  Federal  commis- 
sariat. To  subsist  upon  this  or  to  die  of  gradual 
starvation,  was  the  inevitable  alternative.  To 
illustrate  the  extreme  lengths  to  which  the  ex- 
clusion of  supplies  other  than  the  official  rations 
was  carried,  an  uncle  of  mine  in  North  Carolina, 

who  represented  the  highest  type  of  the  ante- 
bellum Southern  planter,  forwarded  to  me,  by 
flag  of  truce,  a  box  of  his  finest  hams,  renowned 
through  all  the  land  for  their  sweetness  and  ex- 
cellence of  flavor.  The  contents  were  appropri- 
ated by  the  commandant  of  the  Island,  and  the 
empty  box  carefully  delivered  to  me  at  my  quart- 
ers. The  rations  upon  which  life  was  maintained 
for  the  latter  months  of  my  imprisonment  were 
distributed  every  day  at  noon,  and  were  as  fol- 
lows :  To  each  prisoner  one-half  loaf  of  hard 
bread,  and  a  piece  of  salt  pork,  in  size  not  suffi- 
cient for  an  ordinary  meal.  In  taste  the  latter 
was  almost  nauseating,  but  it  was  devoured  be- 
cause there  was  no  choice  other  than  to  eat  it, 
or  endure  the  tortures  of  prolonged  starvation. 
Stimulants  such  as  tea  and  coffee  were  rigidly 
interdicted.  For  months  I  did  not  taste  either, 
not  even  on  the  memorable  first  of  January,  1864, 
when  the  thermometer  fell  to  22  degrees  below 
zero,  and  my  feet  were  frozen. 

Vegetable   food   was  almost  unknown,   and 
as  a  natural  result,  death  from  such  diseases  ^s 
14 


scurvy,  carried  more  than  one  Confederate  to  a 
grave  in  the  island  cemetery  just  outside  the 
prison  walls.  I  never  shall  forget  the  sense  of 
gratitude  with  which  I  secured,  by  some  lucky 
chance,  a  raw  turnip,  and  in  an  advanced  stage 
of  physical  exhaustion,  eagerly  devoured  it,  as 
I  supported  myself  by  holding  on  to  the  steps  of 
my  barrack.  No  language  of  which  I  am  capable 
is  adequate  to  portray  the  agonies  of  immitigable 
hunger.  The  rations  which  were  distributed  at 
noon  each  day,  were  expected  to  sustain  life  un- 
till  the  noon  of  the  day  following.  During  this 
interval,  many  of  us  became  so  crazed  by  hunger 
that  the  prescribed  allowance  of  pork  and  bread 
was  devoured  ravenously  as  soon  as  received. 
Then  followed  an  unbroken  fast  until  the  noon 
of  the  day  succeeding.  For  six  or  seven  months  I 
subsisted  upon  one  meal  in  24  hours,  and  that  was 
composed  of  food  so  coarse  and  unpalatable  as 
to  appeal  onlv  to  a  stomach  which  was  eating  out 
its  own  life.  So  terrible  at  times  were  the  pangs 
of  appetite,  that  some  of  the  prisoners  who  were 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  the  kindlv  services  of 
a  rat-terrier,  were  glad  to  appropriate  the  animals 
which  were  thus  captured,  cooking  and  eating 
them  to  allay  the  fierce  agony  of  unabating  hun- 
ger. Although  I  frequently  saw  the  rats  pur- 
sued and  caught,  I  never  tasted  their  *tesh  when 
cooked,  for  I  was  so  painfully  affected  by  nausea, 

15 


as  to  be  rendered  incapable  of  retaining  the  or- 
dinary prison  fare. 

I  had  become  so  weakened  by  months  of 
torture  from  starvation  that  when  I  slept  I 
dreamed  of  luxurious  banquets,  while  the  saliva 
poured  from  my  lips  in  a  continuous  flow,  until 
my  soldier  shirt  was  saturated  with  the  copious 
discharge. 

The  winters  in  the  latitude  of  Johnson's  Is- 
land were  doubly  severe  to  men  born  and  raised 
in  the  Southern  States.  Moreover,  the  prisoners 
possessed  neither  clothing  nor  blankets  intended 
for  such  weather  as  we  experienced.  During  the 
winter  of  1863-64,  I  was  confined  in  one  room 
with  seventy  other  Confederates.  The  building 
was  not  ceiled,  but  simply  weather-boarded.  It 
afforded  most  inadequate  protection  against  tfte 
cold  or  snow,  which  at  times  beat  in  upon  my 
bunk  with  pitiless  severity.  The  room  was  pro- 
vided with  one  antiquated  stove  to  preserve  70 
men  from  intense  suffering  when  the  thermometer 
stood  at  fifteen  and  twenty  degrees  below  zero. 
The  fuel  given  us  was  frequently  insufficient,  and 
in  our  desperation,  we  burned  every  available 
chair  or  box,  and  even  parts  of  our  bunks  found 
their  way  into  the  stove.  During  this  time  of 
horrors,  some  of  us  maintained  life  by  forming  a 
circle  and  dancing  with  the  energy  of  dispair. 
The  sick  and  wounded  in  the  prison  hospital 
16 


had  no  especial  provision  made  for  their  comfort. 
They  received  the  prescribed  rations,  and  were 
cared  for  in  their  helplessness,  as  in  their  dying 
hours,  by  other  prisoners  detailed  as  nurses.  To 
this  duty  I  was  once  assigned  and  ministered  to 
my  comrades  as  faithfully  as  I  was  able  from 
the  standpoint  of  youth  and  lack  of  training. 

The  mails  from  the  South  were  received 
only  at  long  and  agonizing  intervals.  I  did  not 
hear  a  word  from  my  home  until  at  least  four 
months  after  my  capture.  The  official  regulations 
prescribed  28  lines  as  the  extreme  limit  allowed 
for  a  letter  forwarded  to  prisoners  of  war.  When 
some  loving  and  devoted  wife  or  mother  exceeded 
this  limit,  the  letter  was  retained  by  the  command- 
ant, and  the  empty  envelope,  marked  "from  your 
wife,"  "your  mother,"  or  "your  child,"  was  placed 
in  the  hands  of  the  prisoner.  During  my  confine- 
ment at  Johnson's  Island,  I  succeeded  in  com- 
municating with  ex-President  Pierce,  whom  my 
uncle,  James  C.  Dobbin,  of  North  Carolina,  had 
prominently  supported  in  the  political  convention 
which  nominated  Mr.  Pierce  at  Baltimore  in  1852. 
Knowing  this  fact,  and  that  my  uncle  had  been 
closely  associated  with  Mr.  Pierce  as  Secretary  of 
the  Navy,  I  addressed  a  letter  to  the  former  Presi- 
dent, in  the  hope  that  he  might  exert  some  salu- 
tary influence  which  would  induce  the  authorities 
to  ameliorate  our  unhappy  condition. 
17 


I  received  a  most  kind  and  cordial  letter  from 
Mr.  Pierce,  who  declared  "You  could  not  enter- 
tain a  more  mistaken  opinion  than  to  suppose  that 
I  have  the  slightest  power  for  good  with  this  gov- 
ernment." 

Among  the  Confederate  officers  who  were 
imprisoned  at  Johnson's  Island  at  different  times 
and  during  varying  periods,  were  a  number  who 
in  latter  years  won  fame  and  fortune  in  their 
respective  spheres,  material  or  intellectual,  pro- 
fessional or  commercial.  Many  of  these  I  knew 
personally,  and  I  insert  at  this  point  the  names  of 
some  with  whom  I  came  into  immediate  relation. 
In  this  goodly  company  I  recall  General  Archer, 
of  Maryland ;  General  Edward  Johnson,  of  Vir- 
ginia; General  Jeff.  Thompson,  of  the  Western 
Army ;  Col.  Thomas  S.  Kenan,  of  North  Carolina ; 
General  Isaac  R.  Trimble,  of  Maryland ;  Col. 
Robert  Bingham,  the  head  of  the  famous  Bing- 
ham School  of  North  Carolina;  General  James 
R.  Herbert,  of  Baltimore ;  Col.  Henry  Kyd  Doug- 
las, of  Jackson's  staff;  Col.  K.  M.  Murchison,  of 
North  Carolina;  Col.  J.  Wharton  Green,  owner 
of  the  famous  Tokay  Vineyard,  near  Fayette- 
ville,  North  Carolina;  William  Morton  Brown,  of 
Virginia,  Rockbridge  Artillery;  Captain  B.  R. 
Smith,  of  North  Carolina;  Captain  Joseph  J. 
Davis,  of  North  Carolina;  Lieutenant  Adolphus 
Cook,  of  Maryland;  Lieutenant  Houston,  of 
18 


Pickett's  Division;  Captain  Ravenel  Macbeth,  of 
South  Carolina;  Captain  Matt.  Manly  of  North 
Carolina;  Lieut.  Bartlett  Spann,  Alabama;  Lieut. 
D.  U.  Barziza,  of  Texas;  (Lieutenant  Barziza 
was  named  "Decimus  et  Ultimus,"  as  the  "tenth 
and  last"  of  the  Barziza  children)  ;  Lieutenant 
McKnew,  of  Maryland;  Lieutenant  Crown,  of 
Maryland;  Lieut.  A.  McFadgen,  of  North  Caro- 
lina ;  Lieutenant  McNulty,  of  Baltimore ;  Lieu- 
tenants James  Metz,  Moore,  George  Whiting, 
Nat.  Smith,  of  North  Carolina;  Major  Mayo, 
Captain  Hicks,  Captain  J.  G.  Kenan,  of  North 
Carolina ;  Captain  Peeler,  of  Florida ;  Colonel 
Scales,  of  Mississippi ;  Colonel  Rankin,  Colonel 
Goodwin,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Ellis,  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  "Ham"  Jones,  all  of  North  Carolina; 
Captain  J.  W.  Grabill,  of  Virginia;  Captain  Fos- 
ter, of  Mosby's  Command;  Dr.  Fabius  Haywood 
and  Lieutenant  Bond,  from  North  Carolina ;  Col- 
onel Lock  and  Colonel  Steadman,  of  Alabama; 
Captain  Foster,  Captain  Gillam,  Adjutant  Pow- 
ell, of  North  Carolina;  Lieutenants  King  and 
Jackson,  of  Georgia. 

Many  of  these  whom  I  have  named,  are  still 
living,  and  this  list  may  be  indefinitely  extended. 
They  will  attest  the  essential  accuracy  of  every 
statement  that  this  narrative  contains. 

A  monument  designed  by  Sir  Moses  Eze- 
kiel,  himself  a  Confederate  veteran,  and  a  former 
19 


cadet  at  the  school  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  was 
dedicated  in  1908  to  the  memory  of  the  Confed- 
erate officers  whose  final  resting  place  is  near  this 
island  prison  by  Lake  Erie. 

I  regret  that  a  rational  regard  for  the  con- 
ditions of  space  renders  impracticable  a  more 
elaborate  narrative  of  my  life  as  a  captive  on  the 
narrow  island  which  lies  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bay 
of  Sandusky.  A  mere  enumeration  of  those  with 
whom  I  was  brought  into  contact,  representing 
every  Southern  State  from  Maryland  to  Texas, 
the  Ogdens,  Bonds,  Kings,  Manlys,  Jacksons, 
Lewises,  Mitchells,  Jenkines,  Aliens,  Winsors, 
Crawfords,  Bledsoes,  Beltons,  Fites,  in  addition 
to  those  already  named,  forms  a  mighty  cloud  of 
witnesses,  a  line  stretching  out  almost  to  "the 
crack  of  doom."  A  melancholy  irony  of  fate 
marked  a  large  element  of  the  very  limited  com- 
pany who  escaped  by  their  own  daring,  who  were 
so  fortunate  as  to  secure  release  by  exchange,  or 
by  the  influence  or  intercession  of  friends  in 
accord  with  the  Federal  government.  I  recall 
among  these,  Colonel  Boyd,  Colonel  Godwin, 
Captain  George  Byran,  who  fell  in  the  forefront 
of  the  fray,  charging  a  battery  near  Richmond 
(1864),  dying  only  a  few  moments  ere  it  passed 
into  our  hands ;  and  Colonel  Brable  who,  at  Spott- 
sylvania,  refused  to  surrender,  and  accepted  death 
as  an  alternative  to  be  preferred  to  a  renewal  of 

20 


the  tortures  involved  in  captivity.  While  life  on 
the  island  implied  gradual  starvation  of  the  body 
as  an  inevitable  result  of  the  methods  which  pre- 
vailed, I  found  food  for  the  intellect  in  devotion 
to  the  books  which  had  been  supplied  to  me  by 
loving  and  gracious  friends  whose  home  was  in 
Delaware.  There  was  no  lack  of  cultured  gentle- 
men in  our  community,  and  in  their  goodly  fellow- 
ship I  applied  my  decaying  energies  to  the  Latin 
classics,  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  Macaulay's 
Essays ;  and  found  my  recreation  in  Victor  Hugo, 
whose  "Les  Miserables"  had  all  the  charm  of 
novelty,  having  recently  issued  from  the  press. 
The  poet-laureate  of  the  prison  was  Major  Mc- 
Knight,  whose  pseudonym,  "Asa  Hartz,"  had  be- 
come a  household  word,  not  with  comrades  alone, 
but  in  all  the  States  embraced  within  the  Confed- 
eracy. I  reproduce  "My  Love  and  I,"  written 
upon  the  island,  and  in  my  judgment,  his  happiest 
venture  into  the  charmed  sphere  of  the  Muses. 

MY  LOVE  AND  I. 

1.  "My  Love  reposes  on  a  rosewood  frame 

(A  'bunk'  have  I). 
A  couch  of  feathery  down  fills  up  the  same 
(Mine's  straw,  cut  dry). 

2.  "My  Love  her  dinner  takes  in  state, 

And  so  do  I, 
The  richest  viands  flank  her  plate,  • 

Coarse  grub  have  I. 
Pure  wines  she  sips  at  ease  her  thirst  to 
21 


slake, 
I  pump  my  drink  from  Erie's  limpid  lake. 

3.  "My  Love  has  all  the  world  at  will  to  roam, 

Three  acres  I. 
She  goes  abroad  or  quiet  sits  at  home, 

So  cannot  I. 
Bright  angels  watch  around  her  couch  at 

night, 
A  Yank,  with  loaded  gun  keeps  me  in  sight. 

4.  "A  thousand  weary  miles  now  stretch  be- 

tween 

My  Love  and  I — 
To  her  this  wintry  night,  cold,  calm,  serene, 

I  waft  a  sigh — 
And  hope,  with  all  my  earnestness  of  soul, 
Tomorrow's  mail  may  bring  me  my  parole. 

5.  "There's  hope  ahead:   We'll  one  day  meet 

again, 
My  Love  and  I — 
We'll  wipe  away  all  tears  of  sorrow  then ; 

Her  love-lit  eye 
Will  all  my  troubles  then  beguile, 
And  keep  this  wayward  Reb  from  'John- 
son's Isle.' " 

So  a  gleam  from  the  ideal  world  of  poesy 
fell  upon  the  gloom  of  the  prison  which  Mr. 
Davis,  in  his  message  to  the  Confederate  Con- 
gress, December,  1863,  described  as  "that  chief 
den  of  horrors,  Johnson's  Island." 

END. 

22 


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